


The Wall

by TheDramaticSneeze (Westfelled)



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, PTSD, Trench Warfare, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westfelled/pseuds/TheDramaticSneeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bloodlust had made it easy adjust after the war, a deterrent from the memories of machine guns, trenches and severed limbs. But a wounded soul is not something so easily mended, and it becomes obvious when the only distraction is taken away. </p><p>Or: Mitchell has a nightmare he hasn't had in quite a long time, George and Annie won't let him wake up alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wall

It had started as a good day for John.

Already, he'd won two cigarettes from Smith at Gin, one of which he was currently enjoying and the other, the men openly bargained for. However, the only thing he'd trade for it would be more cigarettes, so he figured it'd be rather redundant and opted to keep the original. The thick, white smoke swirled over his eyes like a veil and he basked in the sweet warmth as it filled his lungs, seeping into his frozen, wet limbs and mud-encrusted skin.

The sudden wailing of an injured comrade strung him from his reverie and he recognized them immediately. Billy, poor bastard found himself with an awful case of trench foot which had only worsened with time. It was a wonder they hadn't chopped the limb off and been done with it, already. John supposed he'd rather be without feet than without hands, though he prayed to God that he'd never be forced to experience that choice.

"Oi, John!"

The man turned stiffly, an acknowledging grin spreading across his face at the approaching American. "Wallace. Keep your head low, mate. Have you got anything for me today?"

"Letter from your ma, o'coarse!" replied the man, enthusiastically exchanging the crinkled envelope, "I reckon she must miss you a lot, John."

"That's because he's a bit of a mother's boy." piped Joe, wrinkled eyes darting up playfully from the task of cleaning his weapon. A distant screech silenced them momentarily and he sighed, "Poor sod's better off dead, he'll draw the every Jerry within ten kilos."

John chewed his lip, dismissing the latter comment. "'Well, at least that's one girl who checks up on me." he smirked, "Bet my Da's already driven her mad, back home."

"I know the feeling." piped Wallace, "My brother complains about Pa's boredom all the time. Micky's too young to hunt."

A spray of distant gunfire and instinctively they ducked their heads lower into the earth. Joe chuckled at the unease on the young soldiers' faces, "No worries, lads. Just the last bits of morning hate." Regardless, their bayonets were held tightly to their chests as he caught their previous topic, "So, Johnny. Your mum, how's she on the eyes, than? You're a young fella'."

"Oi, watch yourself, mate." warned the younger soldier, startling as a large rat scampered across his boots only to be impaled by his bayonet mere moments later.

"I'm just saying, if the woman is as mad as you say she is, she may let me buy her dinner one day." The older man pauses at the glare being directed at him, "It would be a nice place, I swear. Live band, the works." Laughter churned in their section and John grinned, lips spreading in response only to be interrupted by a shrill horn.

A deafening blast, and a shower of dirt, rock and limbs followed immediately after.

Though his ears had been rendered useless, he could feel the earth shuddering and sputtering beneath him. It wasn't his first battle, but neither had the edge worn off. Man would scramble over him with boots digging into his back and a second blast had him a little clearer in the head. The man ducked and chose to filter out the agonized screams of his comrades as dirt and blood showered him.

John started as something rounder than dirt or supplies struck him hard in the back. In the instant, he'd thought it to be a grenade and cursed his stupidity that the object had been to smooth and too broad. When his mind returned to him, he realized just how much of a sitting duck he was allowing himself to become. As if to accentuate the fact, a pepper of bullets slammed into the earth behind him, whizzing past his ear. Keeping his head low, and his weapon clutched close, he bolted through the murky water in the deepest parts of the trench, nearly losing his footing more than once. Another blast, and he was sent headfirst into the murky substance. The liquid had been rank with death, disease and bodily fluids and he could not keep himself from vomiting when he broke the surface. The green and crimson object which had stricken him earlier bobbed incongruously in the pool. The salt and pepper locks that peeked out from beneath the helmet told him he'd never be exchanging puns with Joe again.

"Oi! Ranks, John! Get your arse up here!"

There was something to say about how quickly he collected himself, however. John scrambled up the wall and flopped onto his stomach. When he peered out over the wrung-out earth and barbed wire, he'd never forget the sight which assaulted him much like the bullets that peppered both the ground and his mates alike.  
Never would he let anyone tell him he saw anything less than what was there.

"Shoot, mate!" Will, a young man from Manchester with a red-headed girlfriend and a diamond ring ready in his pack hollered into his brain. The Irishman didn't need to be told twice. However, twice was something which Will had never gotten the opportunity to consider, because his blood had spattered against John's face a moment later.

With every enemy that fell, it seemed four more took his place. John fought for breath in the dust and smoke-addled air as he turned his back into the wall and hurriedly reloaded his weapon. Soldiers scurried back and forth through the rut, the occasional stray bullet picking at their numbers. There was a soft thud of something larger hitting the earth near his ear as it rolled to the floor of the ravine. Wide eyes frantic and searching for its source, it seemed someone else had found it first.

"Grenade!"

The blast threw him from his post, further out into no-mans land and tangling him into a string of barbed wire. A moment of utter terror took him bullets peppered the ground around him, taking advantage of his vulnerability. His head kept low, he withdrew his knife from his boot with shaking hands and frantically sawed the sleeve which held him captive. There was no registration of pain as the blade also sawed his skin and soon he was scrambling headfirst back down into the earth with a bloodied arm and a haphazard target.

As the panic dissipated, he finally registered the mass of blood, corpses and spilled innards he'd landed in.

Mitchell's physical body reacts before his mind is fully aware of what is going on. When he fully comes-to, he's bent over his bed and violently emptying the contents of his stomach. Thankfully, his subconscious has the decency to at least aim for the waste bin.

 _"Mitchell? Mitchell!"_

The vampire shakes, trembling hands searching for some form of stability. A violent convulsion and the slim remains of his stomach are dumped again into the bin, _"Sh-shit."_

It had been years, but blood lust is a funny thing. It crawls beneath the skin, seeping through the tiniest crevasses of one's being and eats them alive. Problem with that, is there isn't much left over once it's finished. It consumes from the inside out, dilutes the things held dear in life. Family, friendship, wealth, accomplishment all become secondary. Blood had become his life. Lack of blood had brought life back.

All 117 years of it.

A mug is being wrestled into his hands and he has no idea when Annie showed up. All grey cardigans, tea and worried inquiries. He doesn't fight it, although most of the warm liquid inevitably ends up on the floor. The quiet curse that comes out if his mouth is feeble and no where near as irritated as it should be. Her presence should comfort him, it nearly always does except there's a tension on the perch of his spine that keeps him from melting into her arms.

When the cotton clears from his ears, he finally registers the words which prior had only been noise, "Was it Herrick? Something you've done?"

Mitchell's past has never been a common topic among the household, with good reason. In fact, he's almost positive the only thing they know of besides his vague participation in the war is his cameo in Casablanca. Mitchell finds himself nodding before his mind can catch up with him.

"Mitchell. I-" 

And suddenly, he's shaking his head. Vigorously.

"It..." Annie has just as much trouble keeping up with his brain as he does. "It wasn't about that, than?"

His head is still shaking. As are his hands, his legs, his shoulders.

There's a light knock before George is the newest dumbfounded occupant of the room, "What's going on, than? It's late."

"He'd been yelling in his sleep and then he threw up." explains Annie, rubbing soothing circles on his taut back.

George's mouth forms a thin line, "Is he better now?"

The resident ghost seems to consider this, "I'm not sure. Doesn't seem it."

Mitchell doesn't even seem to notice they're talking about him.

"Well, I need to be going to sleep." his voice defensively raises a semitone at the accusatory look in her eyes, "I've got the early shift. But tell him I hope he feels better." As he turns to leave, he is oblivious to the mug positioned precariously at the edge of the end table. As the door shuts roughly behind him, the piece shakes and slips from it's perch, shattering into a thousand pieces on the floorboards. Annie looses a short cry of surprise as Mitchell lunges suddenly from her arms and dives to the floor. A glance at an equally-as-befuddled George, and when her eyes return he is curled on the floor with his knees beneath his chest, fingers laced over his tucked head.

"What is wrong with him?" she exclaims worriedly, and a bit exasperatedly.

George shakes his head, "Shit. No, no. I've seen this." he steps carefully over the broken porcelain, "The vets in the psych ward do things like this, they hear a loud noise and think they're back on the battlefield."

"The battlef-" she halts in understanding, "Right. So then, how should we- how do we snap him out of it?"

"Uh, grounding is what they call it." George recalls, "Tell him where he is, who you are. Give him something to bring him back here. That's what they say."

Annie nods, "Mitchell, it's Annie. Were're on the floor in your bedroom, please open your eyes and look at me." soothes the ghost, looking to George for confirmation. "It's alright. George only dropped a mug, you're safe."

"Right, good. We'll try his music." The taller man scurries to the record player huddled near the wall, "How do you bloody work these things?"

The man beneath her palm flinches mightily and Annie is sure to keep her tone soft and soothing, "Volume, George."

"Oh, sorry." he corrects at a significantly lower decibel, "...We are so getting him an iPod tomorrow."

A faint scratching and a musical hum, and George works to contain his triumph. Annie sends him a congratulatory smile before focusing her attention on the man beneath them. Mitchell has moved little more than a muscle, though the trembling has not decreased. In fact, he sounds close to hyperventilating. Annie has never known real fear. Of pain or death. In fact, the biggest horror she's recalled facing had been giving a speech at her high school graduation. There were moments with Owen, she supposes, but none she truly considered terrifying. Born and raised with a stable family in the safety of the suburbs, Annie is thankful for the shelter she'd been provided with. However, she often forgot how many people pushed through life without it. It frustrates her that she can't understand.

"Mitchell." she beckons, gently prying his fingers loose and taking his shaking hands into her own. The record is poor-quality but it seems to get the job done. Glassy eyes are dragged slowly up to hers and Annie nearly gasps at the rawness in the deep hazel orbs. It isn't the Mitchell she's come to know. "You know this song, Listen. I hear you playing it all the time. It's okay, you're here. In Bristol, in our home. We're safe."

There is a distance to him, like he isn't quite convinced she's here in front of him. As if she's too good to be true. Slowly, she raises her hands to his face, searching his eyes for permission. Finding no objection, she gently cups his jaw. "Do you know where you are?"

The man doesn't respond, but his eyes wander the room a bit and the crippling horror which drenched his irises moments prior is replaced with a sudden lethargy. A soft whimper escapes his lips as his limbs grow heavy and suddenly he's struggling to keep upright.

"George."

There are suddenly arms, large and pale that hook under his shoulders and knees before lifting him from the ground. George is thankful that his flatmate isn't all there yet, as he's sure he'd be hearing some objections about the position. Although it is the easiest, it's likely the least dignified. Annie reclines against the headboard, a ready arm out for him to lean their friend.

"I sometimes forget he was a soldier." Annie says as his head is rested against the nook of her collarbone. She smooths his dark hair from his face as George nods in agreement.

"I suppose he still is, in a way." he muses. Annie watches as the large man sinks into the mattress on the opposite side, leaning back against the headboard and shifting the limp vampire to rest against him.

Annie fights back a smile, "Don't you have the early shift?"

"Oh, I, um-" George is interrupted when Mitchell shifts sluggishly, nestling back into their bodies and rolling his head into George's chest. The man shrugs his opposite shoulder, "I still have four sick days, so."

It all ends with the three of them curled in his bed with the faint scratching of the needle in the background.

A nightingale's lullaby bends in the wind  
Messing your hair, drinks the tears from your pillow  
So sleep now, sweet dreams, my love

I may be older but I am not wise  
I'm still a child's grown up disguise  
and I never can tell you what you want to know  
You will find out as you go.

Now the sun's disappeared in the deep blue sea  
Eyes are closed, sleep so deep  
The milk stars are wrapped all around you  
So dream, and your dreams will come true.

Annie wakes first to find the record still spinning.


End file.
